Sickness
by ChAoTiC-nOrMaLiTy
Summary: Canada is sick, Russia's trying to take over the world, and Kumajirou is blissfully unaware. Can Matthew make it through all the craziness pushed upon him, or will his whispers be drowned out?
1. Chapter 1

Matthew Williams watched in amusement as Alfred and Arthur started fighting. Again. The hotel's conference room that their host, Ludwig, rented was full of squabbling Nations and Countries. Arguments could be heard throughout the room, political and personal problems brought up and solved, and grease spots were on everyone's copy of papers for the meeting. He and Francis were leaning against the wall at the back of the room, watching.

Matthew's polar bear, Kumajirou, was asleep in the Canadian's arms and was blissfully unaware of the headache-inducing chatter of the room.

"_Mon cher_," Francis sighed. "This is truly atrocious. Just look at them." The Frenchman waved his arms about the room.

"It's...stressful," whispered Matthew.

"It's too bad that little Mattie couldn't make it," Francis sighed. "Poor Alfred, all alone without his twin," he cooed.

"Papa, I'm Canada," he corrected. Kumajirou woke.

"Who is?"

"Me."

"Oh." The animal fell asleep once more.

"Oh, dear," France said, straightening. "I really must stop talking to myself." He walked away, oblivious to the whispered, "Wait!" coming from Canada. The blonde sighed and looked down at his companion.

"It's just you and me, now," he told the miniature bear. Kumajirou shifted in his sleep and smacked his lips a bit before settling. "Just you and me." The loneliness he felt at being abandoned was shoved into the back of his mind, and he felt his calm demeanor flood back into him. Matthew sighed and walked over to Alfred and Arthur.

"You git! You think you're all that because you are a bloody 'super-power'," Arthur hissed into his "son's" arrogant face. "The only thing keeping me from beating you to a bloody pulp is-"

"Is what, old man?" the American interrupted. "You can't do jack shit to me." He paused to bite into a burger angrily and opened his mouth to shout some more, and inevitably spray everyone with food, but Matthew put his hand on his shoulder.

"Brother."

"Mattie!" he yelled, swooping down and grabbing his brother into a hug, immediately forgetting about England and their fight. "You made it!"

"I was here the whole ti-"

"I was just telling Iggy over there why-"

"My name's not Iggy!" the indignant country yelled.

"Sure sounds like it to me!" America yelled back, turning and forgetting about his twin. Canada rolled his eyes and turned.

"If all you want to do is fight, I'll go somewhere else." But of course, no one heard him. No one ever did. Matthew adjusted his grip on Kumajirou and straightened his shoulders. "We're leaving, now."

"Who are you?"

"Canada, Kumajira. The one who feeds you and takes care of you."

"Oh."

Matthew smiled at his friend and then walked out of the double doors, into the deafening quiet of the hotel. The almost constant noise had caused him to have a headache, and he didn't feel well on top of that.

"Bed rest for me," he whispered, making his way to his room. "Then I'll go home." He nodded to himself and made his way, humming under his breath.

* * *

Ivan was, in a word, angry. His sisters stood on either side of him, and the three were watching the loud English Country fight with his obnoxious offspring from across the room.

"Brother," Natalia whispered in his ear. "We should get out of here."

He was half tempted to take her offer of escape. Yes, the girl had a crush on him and it scared him no end, but he was almost willing to take on her proposals over the imbeciles fighting . Almost.

"Нет, sister. It is almost over. We can wait."

"But, brother! I am bored!" she whined, stomping her foot.

Katyusha hushed her with a finger to her lips. "Sister, that is unbecoming of a Nation." She crossed her arms under her well-endowed breasts. "Besides, this gives us a chance to catch up with one another. My boss will not allow me to see Ivan here. But at this meeting, my boss has no authority."

"That is true. And how are you, sister?" the large Country asked, desperate for an excuse to not talk to Belarus.

"I am good, yet lonely. I have missed you, brother," Ukraine said, tears welling up.

"And I, you," Russia answered sincerely. He maybe fucked up in the head, but he loved his sisters dearly. Even the creepy one.

His sisters started gossiping with one another, and Ivan looked around the room. One did not become a super-power by remaining ignorant of one's neighbor's, after all. The woes were many, he learned, and fixes for them were scarce. He smiled lightly, purple eyes lighting up. Of course, this caused those around him to be silent for a beat, before returning to their various conversations.

"Brother, you are scaring them," Katyusha said, tugging on his sleeve slightly. He patted her hand, earning himself a pout from his youngest sister.

In order to avoid the death glare emitting from her, he glanced around the room for a distraction. He found it in the oft-looked over Canadian. The small boy was leaving, clutching his ever constant animal to his chest.

"Sisters, I am going now. I must speak with Canada." He left before Natalia could latch onto his arm and keep him from leaving, casting a thankful look at his other sister.

Slipping out of the room proved quite easy, and he sighed with relief as the doors shut behind him. Glancing around, he found the Canadian wandering through the hallway, swaying as if drunk.

* * *

"Comrade Matvey!" Russia called, startling Canada from his trance-like state of sickness and aches. He turned to see the intimidating Country bounding towards him, scarf fluttering behind him.

"Yes, Russia?" He felt sick, and just wanted to sleep. But if he could help Russia with whatever problem, he would. It's not like his bed was going to move.

"If my sisters, particularly Natalia, come to you wondering what we talked about, tell her that it is just your boss and my boss talking about a potential deal, and that you do not have specifics as of yet," Russia said, speaking quickly. He kept glancing over his shoulder.

"Why?" he asked. The larger Country glared at him and smiled, the fiery purple orbs swirling with a menacing aura.

"Just do it," he threatened, and then shoved past him to the elevators.

He would of course, simply because it seemed simpler to play along than to risk Russia's wrath. He couldn't help but wonder why, though. Is there really a deal that is really being talked about between the two bosses? If so, why wasn't he told? Sure, Canada was easily ignored, and even his boss had forgotten about him more than once, but he was always told of important things. Matthew shook his head. He was much too sick for this.

It wasn't the Country that was sick, though. It was his human body, he was pretty sure. Like every other human body in the world, his was susceptible to viruses and diseases. Sleep sounds really good right now, he though to himself. With that in his mind he made his way once more to his room, missing the glare sent his way by Belarus, who had snuck out of the conference room after her brother.

* * *

He collapsed on the bed, Kumajirou squirming as the man's weight suffocated him. Canada moved slightly, allowing the bear to escape. As soon as he was free, the country rolled back to his belly, the pressure of his body on his stomach feeling good and upsetting at the same time. It was a delicate balance of feeling nasty and somewhat normal that he relished.

Matthew's head pounded in time to his heart, and he groaned slightly at the pain. His stomach churned, and he leapt for the washroom, barely making it to the toilet. Bile burned his throat and mouth, and the involuntary movements of his body made him feel helpless. Tears squeezed out of his eyes as another wave of bile rose and he retched.

Finally, after what felt like years but in all actuality was a few moments, he finished. Matthew flushed and reached for his toothbrush. After putting paste on the bristles, he glanced at his reflection in the mirror that was hanging on the wall above the sink.

Matthew noted the pale skin and sunken cheeks, the dark smudges under his eyes. Those were the result of the lack of appetite and sleepless nights. He slowly started to brush his teeth, spacing out as he stared at himself in mirror.

The insomnia had settled in sometime last month. Matthew found himself waking up earlier and earlier, until finally, he fell asleep at ten at night only to wake up eight minutes later, wide awake. After the first sleepless night, which he spent laying in bed, trying to bore himself to sleep, he decided to take up drinking chamomile tea, which Arthur had told him relaxed the body, right before bed.

It didn't work, to say the least. After the second sleepless night in a row, Canada decided to just sleep whenever he could. That proved difficult, as he rose and slept with the sun. It was nearly impossible for him to sleep while the sun was out, which was useful in dealing with jet lag. In the past month or so, he figured he got maybe seventy hours of sleep. He didn't know for sure, but it was enough to keep him lucid, though if he was noticed more, Countries might have noticed.

He spat and rinsed his mouth out, and then went to lay down next to Kumajirou.

"Scoot," he said. The bear scooted, but settled down right next to him as soon and the Country stopped moving. Pulling his friend closer, Canada closed his eyes, hoping against hope that a few hours of sleep would take him. Just a few. Was that asking too much?

* * *

Apparently it was, Matthew admitted a few hours later. His eyes were itchy and burning, and his stomach growled at him. He sighed and rolled out of bed, watching his bear claim his warm spot on the bed. Pulling on his red hoodie and some shoes, he slipped out of his room, phone and key card in hand.

Glancing at his little flip phone told him three things; first, it was two thirty in the morning, second, that he had a missed call and third, he had seven texts. He rolled his eyes and stuck it in his hoodie pocket with the card. He smiled at the night desk person as he went outside. It was pleasantly cool out, and refreshing.

He had started walking on the fifth sleepless night, in the vain hopes that he would tire himself out. It hadn't, but it was a habit that he followed through with almost every night. There was something relaxing and invigorating about being the only one awake, and it felt like he was the only person in the world. Normally, in a roomful of people, this thought would depress him, but if he was truly by himself it wasn't a big deal. In fact, he craved it sometimes; being alone with his thoughts and worries.

A mile and a half later, he walked back into the hotel, greatly relaxed. He scored some breakfast, which was free, and walked with it back to his room.

Giving it to Kumajirou, who had slept through the night, he switched on the television. He clicked through channels, pausing for a second on a hockey game. He'd seen it before, though, and turned it off. His stomach still felt terrible, and his head ached.

Fuck it. He reached into his bag and pulled out sleeping pills. He would wake up late and feeling hung-over, and he wouldn't be able to drive for quite awhile, but his body needed rest. He swallowed the pills and a half hour later was passed out in the bed, the light of his phone going off in his pocket ignored.

* * *

**A.N. Hello, there. This is my first-ever fic! This chapter is short simply so that I know whether or not it's worth it to continue it. If it is liked, I will write longer chapters for it! Please read and review...I put a lot of work into this, and would appreciate any and all criticisms so that I may grow as a writer. Thank you!**

**A.N. 2: Also, I've seen two spellings for two different words. "Matvey" and "Matviy" and "Matthew" and "Mathew". Please, let me know which one you like better, and if I need to, I'll go back and fix it! Thanks, and please read and review! **


	2. Chapter 2

Canada woke eight hours later with a fuzzy head and unclear thoughts in his head as to _why_ he had been woken up. Sleep, which had evaded him for most of the month, was a sweet temptress, and he was more than willing to fall into it again.

But Kumajirou's prodding nose on his face proved his wants and dreams useless. He opened his eyes to glare at his friend. "What?"

"I'm hungry," the bear all but pouted.

"Then eat." Matthew closed his eyes and attempted to go back to sleep.

"There's no food, and the big man has been hitting the door."

_Big man_ translated to his taller and beefier twin, Alfred. Matthew groaned and rolled out of bed. He was slightly dizzy, and his muscles were slow to respond. On top of that, his headache was still there, and his mouth was dry.

"Mattie!" Alfred yelled from outside his door. "Come on, I've been standing out here for forever! Open your door!"

"In a minute," Matthew told him. Running fingers through his hair, and yawning, he opened the door to allow his brother in. "Yes?"

"Bro, Germany is _pissed_."

"Why?"

"Because he got fined for a late-check out..." His eyes stopped focusing on his brother and instead focused through him. "What?"

"Al. Why is Germany mad, again?" Matthew asked impatiently.

"Mattie! Where did you come from?" America asked when he saw Canada again. "Been looking all over for you. Germany's mad because you didn't check out of the hotel in time, man."

_Shit. _Matthew winced. "Tell him I'll pay him back the fine while I pack up, would you?"

"Yeah, bro, you got it." Alfred took off down the hallway whistling. Matthew knew he would probably forget what he was supposed to do, and leave Germany thinking that Matthew was a jerk. He'd talk to Ludwig, as well, he decided.

"Who are you?" Kumajirou asked.

"I'm Canada, Kumasi," he answered, knowing he got the name wrong and knowing it didn't really matter. "Come on, we have to pack."

Ten minutes later, he was at the front desk apologizing to the clerk and paying the fine. Ludwig was standing outside with his arms crossed, looking intimidating.

"I'm s-sorry," Matthew whispered when he went to talk to him. "I-I paid the fine, so you don't have to."

"Good." Ever curt, Germany simply walked away, muttering something about Italy.

"Well, Kuma-Kuma, let's go home," Canada said to the bear draped around his neck.

"Finally."

* * *

Russia sat at his desk in his study, frowning at the wood as if it had done him personal harm. He tapped his fingers in a steady rhythm, bored out of his mind.

There was simply nothing to do. He was as stable as could be at the moment, there were no natural disasters, his boss didn't want to talk to him and he could think of no one to visit. He _could_ go out and enjoy the culture of his people and his nation, but he couldn't bring himself to do that.

There was nothing for it, then, he decided. Ivan stood, letting his body unfold in a graceful movement and his omnipresent scarf followed. It was time to get drunk off his ass.

He passed through his empty and quiet house, and flipped the light on in the kitchen. Above his fridge was a cupboard specifically for vodka, the Water of Life. He reached up and grabbed one of several bottles up there easily, and shut the cupboard door. Twisting the cap off, he threw it away while chugging at the bottle. The pure alcohol fuzzed his mind a bit, not drunk or tipsy, but enough of a buzz going that he remembered to not be bored.

Taking another swig, he flipped the light off and walked out to his porch. It was snowing quietly, like something out of a Christmas card, and it was one of the few things he still enjoyed about the weather in his country.

He eyed the pipe that stood against the house that was sitting on the porch, frozen to the ground. How long has it been since he'd used that? Ivan tried to figure it out while drinking, and soon losing his train of thought.

He stared out at the landscape, and took another swig. But it was empty, so he went inside and grabbed another, setting the empty on the counter. This time, before he went back outside, he took his coat with him. Shrugging it on, he pushed the door open with his shoulder and sat on the front step once more, toastier than before. He wasn't sure if it was the vodka or the coat, and it didn't really matter.

He sighed. He was bored, not even his tipsy mind could make him forget that despite his best efforts. He needed something to do with his life, something amusing and preferably beneficial to him and his country.

Ivan had almost reached that with the Cold War, when he tried to make everyone one with him. That obviously didn't work so well, and he couldn't help but rue his loss. If the world was his, and under his command, it would be perfect. Sure, there would be the odd strike against him, and rebels were pretty much a given, but he was sure that in time everyone would see the appeal of being Russian.

And really, it's not like Germany didn't try the same thing in the forties. What with WWII and everything. His mistake, though, was that he only wanted one type of person in his world. Ivan didn't care _who_ was in his world, as long as they were _in_ his world.

If he had the chance to do it again, he'd be a lot sneakier. Ivan nodded to himself and tried to drink more vodka, but the full bottle that was in his grasp was now empty. How did that happen?

Oh, well. He went back inside, and retrieved another full one, setting the second empty on the counter next to the other one. Back outside, he tried to gather his thoughts.

What was he thinking about before he ran out of booze? Women? No, he didn't think so. Work? What work?

"What?" he slurred to himself, staring at the bottle as if it could give him answers. "What was I thinking about?"

He cast his eyes around the porch, trying to focus on the pipe against the house. But it wasn't there anymore. Panicking, he looked around, looking for his instrument of freedom before whacking himself in the face with it. "Oh!" he said happily, glad he had found it.

Running gloved fingers up and down the rusty and battered surface, his previous thoughts filtered through. World domination. _Sneaky_ world domination. So sneaky that the other countries wouldn't even _know_ what was going on. Not that they really had an idea now, though.

_But who to take on first? _he wondered. Surely not any of the U.K. They knew his tricks. And certainly not America. Who? Who was he forgetting?

He racked his brain, trying to remember. He set the pipe down on the ground, but he must have tossed it because it went scuttling away on the ice, about twenty feet away. Damn it.

He reached for the vodka and realized there was nothing there. Why should he have to go inside all the time? Why? He stomped inside and grabbed three bottles of vodka and brought them out with him. He set them down carefully on the floor of his porch, shaking a finger at the wood.

"You hold still now, da?" When he was certain that the ground wouldn't steal his vodka and he felt it was sufficiently threatened, he navigated the stairs to grab his trusty pipe.

After sliding on the ice that he couldn't see, he sat down on the steps and continued to drink into the night, trying to figure out who he had forgotten and why it was important.

What he needed, he decided, was someone to confide in. Yes, all these thoughts were nice and good, but as it stood they would only remain as such: thoughts. Who was a good listener, then?

* * *

Matthew opened his eyes to a lit up phone on his bedside table. He had _almost_ been asleep. So freakin' close. He sighed and grabbed his trusty flip phone.

"Hello?" His voice, cracked from being silent for the last few hours, sounded strange to him.

"Comrade Matvey?"

"Russia?"

"Da. I have not woken you, have I?"

"Um, no, I was just trying to take a nap, b-but it wasn't going to happen. Russia, are you okay? You sound weird."

"Da, I am fine."

There was an awkward pause, in which Matthew shuffled his feet uncomfortably while waiting for the large Russian to say what he needed to.

"Matvey, I have always wondered why people ignore you," Russia said bluntly.

"Because I'm seen as unimportant, I would suppose," he answered carefully, eyes narrowing in thought. "It has also crossed my mind that at first everyone was just playing a prank on me, but then everyone forgot it was supposed to be a prank."

"You are the second largest country, da?"

"W-well, I guess-"

"Then, why do you allow yourself to be ignored?"

Matthew sighed lightly, wishing the conversation was over. "Did you call just to ask why people ignore me? Because I honestly don't know why they do."

There was a pause on the other end of the phone before Russia said, "I have forgotten why I have called," rather sheepishly.

"Oh. Well, It's probably really late in Russia, so I'm just going to let you go so you can sleep, alright?"

"Da." With that curt agreement the Russian hung up, and Matthew sighed a large breath of relief.

"Who are you?" Kumajirou asked sleepily from his perch on the couch.

"I'm Canada."

"Who was that?"

"Russia, of all people. He forgot why he called, I guess." He felt a wave of sickness pass through his small body and saliva flood his mouth in preparation of, well, "sicking up".

He barely made it to the washroom in time, and Kumajirou fell back asleep, far too used to the sounds by now to be concerned for the human.

* * *

Ivan stared at his phone with glassy eyes. _What was the point in that?_ he asked himself. Shoving the phone back into his pocket, he gathered the vodka up and headed inside after placing his pipe back on the porch. Before he fell asleep, he stumbled to his study and grabbed some paper and a pen.

After writing down his sneaky domination plan, he prepared himself for sleep. Falling easily into it, his last thought was, _Hopefully this works._

Of course, when he woke the next morning, he staggered into his kitchen with his head in his hands. His scarf was a little looser than normal to avoid sitting on his throat and his coat was undone and hanging open. He groaned at himself when he saw the five empties sitting on the counter. _Water of Life indeed,_ he scoffed. He picked them all up and threw them away before starting some bread for toast, pretty much all his stomach could handle right now.

His phone went off, and he fumbled for it. His sister, Natalia. He decided to let it ring, unwilling to deal with her this early in the...he glanced at the clock. Afternoon. Good thing he didn't have anything planned for today, he thought wryly.

The phone went to voice mail, and Ivan sighed in relief. He prepared his toast and flopped on the couch with it and some coffee, flipping through the channels. Glancing at the time on his phone, he noticed the new voice mail icon along side the missed call icon. Checking the voicemail first he listened to the breathing of Natalia for a few seconds before she had hung up. Deleting the all too familiar message, he clicked through the menu of his phone to look a the missed call so the corresponding icon disappear on his phone.

It was while he was doing this that he noticed the call to Canada. God damn it. This day just keeps getting better and better.

* * *

**A.N.: Thank you so much for the review and the follows and favorites! Totally made my day. Please, if you enjoyed this chapter, let me know! Or, you know, if I wrote something so glaringly wrong that I'm an idiot for not catching it, let me know about that too so I can fix it!**


	3. Chapter 3

He didn't remember anything, of course. It had been after his fifth bottle of vodka that he made the call. Ivan scrolled to Canada's name, highlighting it. He sighed, and pressed it, effectively placing the call to the other Country. It was only after he was listening to the second ring from the other end that he realized that there was nearly a ten hour difference between the two.

Oh, well. He'd leave a voice mail if he had to.

"Hello?"

"Comrade Matvey? I was wondering, when I called you earlier, what did I say?"

There was silence on the other end for a moment, but Ivan waited patiently. No doubt Canada had just woken up and needed time to think.

"If I'm remembering this correctly, and I think I am, you had forgotten what you had called me about and had asked me why I am always being ignored."

Ivan nodded silently into the phone. "I see. I am sorry to have bothered you at such a late hour," he started, knowing that it was probably early morning where Canada was.

"It was no bother." After formal good-byes, Ivan ended the call and sat back on his couch, toast and coffee long forgotten. That was next to useless information, but information none the less. He sighed and made his way into the kitchen to push his uneaten breakfast in the garbage before heading to his study. There was no work, really, but he could scrounge something up to ease his ever present boredom.

As he sat down, he noticed the note he had apparently written to himself the night before. He smirked.

* * *

Matthew stretched his arm out to put his phone back on the bedside table. He didn't care what time it was right then. It was dark out, and his boss wasn't coming to visit until that afternoon. He had several hours to become presentable, and he knew that a visit to the store was in order, if only to get caffeine pills and coffee.

He pushed lanky blonde hair out of his face, scratching at his scalp. The chances of his boss actually _remembering_ that he was supposed to see the Country were pretty good; he usually forgot the first time but not the second. The first meeting was to have taken place last Wednesday, and when Matthew had called to remind him about the meeting, his boss had rescheduled for this Wednesday.

He had, unfortunately, spent the week doing little more than moping and working. His eating schedule had become a mess, and eventually he stopped and just took supplements and drinking water. Matthew knew it was unhealthy, but surely it was more healthy that praying to the porcelain god every few hours.

He would take food every now and then, usually crackers or a spoonful of peanut butter. The food in his fridge had gone bad, and in a fit of obsessive cleaning he had thrown it all out. He hadn't been grocery shopping for a while.

Matthew's thought process was interrupted by his stomach growling. He sighed and got out of bed, careful not to disturb the polar bear.

The tile of his kitchen was cold on his bare feet, but he barely felt it in his bleary state. Opening the fridge, he was greeted by a dozen eggs that hadn't gone bad, and a loaf of stale bread. He shrugged and pulled them out.

As he was making a fried egg sandwich, he stared out the window into the predawn light. The sun wouldn't be up for a couple of hours yet, but the false sunlight was comforting in a way. For a moment, all Matthew wanted to do was soak in the sight of his sleeping country. His toast popped and he jumped at the sound, loud in the silence of his house.

Spooning the egg onto the toast, he leaned against the counter on his elbow and started eating.

And, oh God, it was delicious. His eyes closed involuntarily as the first food he ate in days hit his tongue and filled his belly. Warmth radiated out, and he reveled in it. After a few more bites, he found himself comfortably full. He grabbed a glass of water to wash it down, and took the remaining food to his room, for Kumajirou.

Human food was normally not good for him, but he needed a treat for having to deal with a sick and irritable owner, Matthew figured. With the act justified, he proceeded to wake his friend.

"Kurujuma," he whispered, poking the bear with his free hand. "I have a surprise for you."

"Who are you?" the animal said blearily, not bothering to open his eyes.

"I'm Canada, the one who gives treats." His eyes opened at that, and Kumajirou yawned as he took in the sight of Matthew holding most of an open-faced egg sandwich.

"Gimme," he demanded, holding out a paw. Matthew giggled and placed the food on the floor before depositing the bear next to it. Glancing at the clock next to his bed, he decided to get ready for the day, knowing it was going to be long.

* * *

Several hours later, he regretted eating the food. Matthew, in his light blue suit, sat in between his boss and his bear at the desk in his office. He was watching an advertisement in PowerPoint for smuggling on the Canadian/American borders. Compared to the illness that gripped him, this was nothing more than a niggling itch, one that was easily fixed. He'd talk to Alfred and see about setting up a stricter border control or something.

He was extremely dizzy, as well. This was a relatively new symptom. He usually only felt this way after he had medicated himself to sleep or he had gone through a particularly rough patch with this mysterious sickness. Matthew swallowed and tried to concentrate on the slides on the computer in front of him.

The obnoxiously bright colors were giving him a headache, and sweat beaded at his hairline. He shoved his glasses up his nose, surreptitiously wiping his forehead. The next three minutes were sheer torture, easily the longest few minutes of his life.

"Excuse me for a moment, would you?" he asked softly. He had to repeat himself before his boss heard him and was excused. He grabbed Kumajirou and walked calmly out of his office and making his way into his room. Dropping the bear off on his bed, he made his way to the attached bathroom and evicted the food in his stomach.

Tears squeezed their way out of his eyes, and he placed his glasses on the counter so that he could wipe them.

_Falling apart like a baby isn't going to fix anything!_ he told himself. He flushed and brushed his teeth, getting the foul taste out of his mouth. _If anything, it's making it worse. This is surely a bug of some sort. It will go away._ Reassured and feeling better, he left the bathroom.

Kumajirou was asleep, so he went back to the office by himself.

"Everything all right?" his boss asked. The man was older, with salt-and-pepper hair. He was thin as a rail and always dressed impeccably.

"Everything's fine, Mr. Harper. Kumasa was just tired and needed to rest."

The explanation (read "lie") taken, the two talked the rest of the afternoon about ways to improve the country's economy. It was a long, grueling process, and Matthew was afraid that he zoned out for some of it. It was nothing that he hadn't heard before, and he wasn't too worried about it.

That evening, Harper expressed his concern for the personification of Canada.

"Are you feeling all right? You look a bit pale, if I may say so." The Prime Minister looked him over in concern. "You've lost quite a bit of weight, as well."

"I'm fine!" Matthew smiled. "Just the smuggling getting to me, I'll bet. I feel itchy all over from that."

"I see. Well, if you do need anything, you let me know, would you?"

"Of course." After seeing his boss off, he sighed and shut the front door, sliding down it and resting his head on his up-drawn knees. Maybe sleep would take him in its sweet embrace.

And with that thought, he drifted off.

* * *

A knock at the door caused Ivan to growl in annoyance. He had _finally_ found something to do (looking through charity proposals) and he just had to be interrupted. He debated ignoring it, but they knocked again, and it was pretty cold out. He couldn't let them, whoever "they" are, freeze out there.

He stomped down the stairs to the front door, opening it to reveal...nothing. Cold wind wormed its way through his coat, and he shivered as he looked dumbly out at the landscape.

He was definitely working too hard if he was imagining someone at his door. He sighed and shut the door. Shaking off the feeling that he was going crazy, he made a detour to his kitchen for a sandwich and went back to his study. He sat down once more, and bit into the bread and meat.

The screen was blurring, the letters of proposals nigh on unreadable. Ivan shut the screen off and made his way to his living room. He hoped against hope that there was a good movie on, one _not_ made by that damn American. Finding one, he settled down to watch when the back of his neck prickled.

Without outwardly showing any tension, he slowly looked around the room. He was painfully aware of the area behind his couch, an open space that was now doused in darkness. With a groan, he stood and turned to the kitchen, which was adjacent to the living room. He glanced around stealthily, but saw nothing. His unease grew.

He made his way upstairs, listening intently. Nothing. But he didn't make it through the various wars ignoring his instincts.

Though he was tense, his body language didn't show it. He intentionally relaxed his shoulders, and kept his face clear of all emotions. His hands were not clenched, and he walked normaly. He went to the bathroom, and saw nothing. Ivan brushed his teeth and left. He glanced in the various guest rooms, and found nothing. He resisted the urge to curse, because now he had a pretty good idea about who was in his house.

Food forgotten, the Russian went back downstairs and turned the television off. He all but ran to his room, praying he would make it in time. He didn't know where she was, but he as he broke into a run to climb the steps, it was as if the hounds of hell were chasing him.

He slammed and locked his bedroom door not a second too soon. He watched in horror as the doorknob rattled. Backing away, he dragged his bed so that it was parallel to the door and tipped it up on its side, paralyzing fear eating through him. He sat behind the upturned bed, listening to the scratches that had begun to sound from his door.

"Brother, come out, da?" Natalia asked, dragging her nails down the rough wood. "That game of hide and seek wasn't very fun." He remained silent and wrapped his arms around his knees.

"Come, brother. Let us marry! I still want to be one with Russia! In more than one way," she continued suggestively. Ivan shivered in fear, a cold sweat breaking out on his back.

There was silence for a few moments, and Ivan started to relax. He crept his way to his door, listening intently. Hoping against hope that she had given up, he resisted the urge to open the door for fear she was still on the other side of it, waiting him out. He jumped when he heard something clank against his window.

The top rungs of a ladder were rested against the sill, and he ran to his window to look down. Sure enough, his sister was climbing up.

"Brother! It is cold out here! Help me warm up!" She cackled at her innuendo.

Ivan ran to his door, unlocked it and ran downstairs. He waited at the front door, car keys in hand, until he heard his sister's feet land in the house. Quietly, quietly, he opened the door and snuck around the house to where the ladder was leaning against the wall. Carefully, so as not to alert his sister, who was calling his name, he laid the ladder on the ground and then sprinted to the garage, where his jeep was parked.

It roared to life, and he slipped it into gear. Ivan floored it, up shifting smoothly until he could go no faster. The light flipped on in the living room, and he saw his sister throw open the front door, the light framing her.

Looks like he was sleeping in a hotel room for a couple weeks. Ivan sighed and wished he could go back in time to be bored once more. It was much more preferable.

* * *

**A.N. Thank you for all the follows and favorites! And thank you _larissita_ for your reviews! I love them!_  
_**

**Please, if you enjoyed this chapter, let me know in a review. I am truly appreciative of the follows and favorites, and they make my day, but I need feedback to improve my writing so I can present better chapters!**

**Also, I just realized that I haven't disclaimed "Hetalia" at all. So I'm doing it now! I do not now, nor have I ever, owned "Hetalia". This goes for all future and past chapters. Thank you for reading, and don't forget to review!**


	4. Chapter 4

When Matthew woke, it was to Kumajirou's cold wet nose nudging his face. He was loathe to relinquish his hold on sleep for the awake world, but he knew it was futile; once he was awake he would remain so for at least sixteen hours. He opened his eyes to glare at his "friend". There bear was unaffected and merely repeated his motion, pressing his black nose into his skin, this time the crook of his neck.

"Hungry."

"Yes, yes." The Canadian rose to his feet with a groan. He had slept curled up, the side of his face pressed against his knees. He probably had lines in his face now. "Lucky me."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Canada, the one who has yet to decide to feed you." It was a joke, of course, but with the return of his senses came the nearly constant sickness that shrouded him like a black cloud. He sighed and removed his glasses so that he could rub the bridge of his nose. He was hoping to ease the headache that was creeping up, but it wasn't doing any good. Resigning himself to going to the store, for he never did earlier like he had planned to, he replaced his glasses and walked to the kitchen, Kumajirou following behind him.

"Mattie! What do you have to eat in this place? I'm hungry!" Alfred greeted enthusiastically. Matthew was nonplussed, and stared at his brother. "Mattie?"

"Hello, Alfred," Matthew replied, anger beginning to fizzle under his skin. "As pleased as I am to see you, would you mind explaining how you got into my house?"

Alfred, sensing he had done something wrong, froze in the act of going through his brother's cupboards. He smiled winningly at his brother.

"Through the window!" Matthew's gaze turned into a glare, and Alfred hurriedly started to explain. "See, I knocked on your door earlier after I saw Harper leave, but there was no answer. I knew you were home, because he's your boss, right? There's no reason for him to be in your house without you! But when you didn't answer the door, I got worried! You gotta understand, you're so weak and helpless that it wouldn't take much to hurt you.

"Anyway, I circled around your house I tried the backdoor, but it was locked too. The same with all the windows on the first floor. So I went through your garage and got your ladder and tried all the windows on the second floor! Easy peasy!"

Oh, God. He actually broke into his house. Matthew sighed and rubbed his temples in annoyance. "Go on," he said tiredly.

"Really? Okay, so I ended up in your room. Bro, I don't want to seem mean, but you gotta clean." After a pointed glare from his brother, Alfred hurried on to finish. "I came downstairs and found you sleeping against the front door, and you looked so cute and comfortable that I just left you there. I turned on the t.v. and watched movies until about ten minutes ago, when I got hungry."

"Do I want to know _why_ you felt it necessary to break into my house?"

"I didn't break in, I took the scenic route!" Alfred yelled, indignant. "Besides, I was bored, and Tony wouldn't play with me."

"With friends like you, who needs enemies?" the Canadian asked under his breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Listen, I'm about to head to the store for some medicine. I'll treat you to dinner, if you want." Matthew briefly considered staying mad at his brother, and was sorely tempted to, but in the end Alfred was just worried about his brother. The fact that the American remembered he existed at all said a lot.

"Medicine? Why would you need medicine?"

"I have a headache from the smuggling in Montana and North Dakota," he lied. "It hurts enough to be annoying, but not enough to qualify it as a migraine."

"Then let's go! The sooner you feel better, the sooner we can play!" The fact that he glossed over the fact that it's his fault his brother hurt went unsaid, but that was fine. There was just something about Alfred that drew one to him, and forgive him almost instantly. Of course, there was a line there that he had crossed many times with Arthur, but Matthew wouldn't fuss over his brother's behavior. He'd, as odd as this sounded, broken into his house with the best of intentions.

They headed to the store, with Matthew carrying Kumajirou in a backpack and Alfred carrying on about how his McDonald's fast food restaurants had spread through out the entire world, save for a few places.

"Even you have them!" he yelled, jabbing his index finger at a pair of golden arches.

"Yes, Alfred, you needn't point it out to me," Matthew said wearily. His headache was worse, and he had the feeling that the only reason he wasn't puking right now was that there wasn't anything _to_ puke. It didn't stop that feeling that curled in his stomach, nor did that stop the cold sweat that beaded on his face.

"Are you all right? You look tired."

"Well, that could probably be because Kumahi woke me up, and quite rudely at that," Matthew replied, sending a mock glare over his shoulder to his very unconcerned friend. "That and I spent a good couple hours on the floor."

"Oh, yeah," Alfred said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, do you want to eat first? Or shop?"

"Probably better do the shopping," Matthew said. Hopefully by the time they got out of the store his stomach will have settled. They went into the store and got a cart. As they wandered through the store, Alfred talking nearly nonstop, Matthew pushed the cart slowly. He was dizzy, and very thirsty.

"Mattie?"

"Yeah," he answered slowly.

"Do you wanna sit down? Maybe get some water, or something? You look really bad."

Suppressing the urge to snap at his brother, he nodded and let him assist him to a bench that sat between the doors to the washrooms. He placed his elbows on his knees and cradled his forehead in his hands, trying to stave off the headache and failing miserably.

"Here," Alfred said, handing him a water bottle he had doubtlessly just grabbed off the shelf. Matthew twisted the cap off and took a big gulp. After draining the bottle, he felt a bit better, not so dizzy and his head had stopped aching slightly.

"Thanks," he smiled at his brother. Alfred sat down next to him, concern etched on his features.

"Is there something wrong?" he asked softly, catching the Canadian off guard. The obnoxious, loud and annoying boy was gone, only to be replaced by the worried and far more mature brother. Matthew sighed.

"Not really. I'm just feeling a bit off."

"You look like death."

"Excuse me?"

"Have you seen yourself? Mattie, you're pale as a ghost, you've obviously lost weight, that frankly you can't _afford_ to lose, your eyes look like one huge bruise. You're shaky, you're dizzy, you're running a fever. Is it the economy?"

"It's nothing. My body is just fighting a natural disease."

"I can't believe that. Why is your body susceptible to human diseases, but mine isn't?"

Matthew sighed and leaned back, careful not to crush Kumajirou. "Maybe because I'm not as strong as you." The whisper of his voice was rough as he admitted weakness to his brother. "Maybe I can't handle the stress."

"Stress?"

"You of _all_ people know that I'm easily ignored. Whenever my country's in trouble, I have to shout at you guys for hours, and that's very draining when you're sick. I've tried my hardest to be a stable, healthy Country so I wouldn't have to depend on people who may or may not forget that I exist.

"This illness doesn't feel like there's something wrong with the country. It feels as if there's something wrong with _me_."

* * *

Ivan's hotel room was far from comfortable. He grumbled as he turned the pillows over, _again_, and tried to fluff them up a bit.

The snow outside was riding on howling winds, threatening to become a blizzard. Perfect sleeping weather. He pulled the blanket up to his chin and clicked on the television hanging from the wall.

He had no qualms about leaving the television on all night; it wasn't his bill to pay. And it just so happened that movies were great to fall asleep to. He watched lazily, not bothering to sit up to see the screen better.

Ivan hoped Natalia left his house soon. He really wanted to work himself in exhaustion in his gym. Get a good work out and clear his mind. He would need a clear mind.

* * *

The brothers sat in the McDonald's. Alfred was back to his happy and annoying self, though he kept throwing glances at Matthew. These glances irritated the Canadian, but he swallowed it down, knowing that he was simply worried.

"Order 67! Al!" The girl behind the counter called out their order number, and Alfred rushed to the front to grab it. The tray was piled high with burgers, fries and more burgers. Even if Matthew wasn't sick, he still would have felt nauseous from all that grease. Hidden under all the food were two plastic cups, and Matthew grabbed his and dashed to the soda fountain. He got water for himself and watched as Alfred got a little of every pop.

"Why would you _do_ that?" he asked his brother.

"It's delicious! You want to try a sip?" Alfred offered, holding the cup filled with a purple liquid inside to his nose.

"Um, no thanks." They went back to their table, and Matthew people watched as Alfred scarfed down his food.

"Hungry," Kumajirou said, poking Matthew in his shoulder. "Tell the weirdo to share."

"I'm not a weirdo!" Alfred yelled, spraying half chewed bun and meat. The other customers turned to look at them, watching with disgust as the American slurped at his "pop" and glared at the bear.

"Here," Matthew said, grabbing a burger and unwrapping it. He set it on the chair next to him and Kumajirou climbed down and started eating. "Now, will both of you be quiet?"

The patrons gradually turned away from the brothers. Matthew spaced out, half listening to his brother, until they left. The American was carrying a bag of burgers he couldn't have eaten at the restaurant while Matthew carried his bag of vitamins and some bread from the store.

"Well, I'm gonna be going now," Alfred said when they reached Matthew's house.

"All right. Travel safely."

"Yeah. And try to rest more, okay?" The American wrapped his arms around his brother tightly, letting the embrace show the true scope of his worry. Matthew returned the hug with a small smile.

"I will. I feel better already!" he smiled when they pulled back. Alfred eyed him before releasing him completely.

"I hope so," he called as he walked away. Matthew stood outside of his house for a few more moments with a small smile on his face before heading inside to his empty house. He went to the kitchen and put away his pills and bread before heading upstairs to his room for a shower.

He felt nasty, like grease was coating his skin. But at the same time, he felt better. His upset stomach had all but left and his headache was gone. He was still dizzy if he moved his head too quickly and he had the feeling that he still couldn't eat, but besides that he could convince himself he was fine.

He set the water to as hot as he could handle it, and stepped into the spray. He was so tired all of a sudden.

* * *

The hotel room's phone rang, startling the Russian awake. Blinking purple eyes awake, he stumbled to the phone on the little table across the room.

"Hello?"

"Brother! I have been looking everywhere for you!"

"Katyusha," he sighed, relief coursing through him. "I though you were Natalia for a moment. Why have you been looking for me?"

"Natalia called me a couple hours ago, asking to come over. She is here at my house now, so I think it's safe for you to go back."

"Thank God," Ivan sighed, sitting down in the chair next to the table. "This hotel is terrible."

"I believe it. I have to go now," she said, reluctance in her voice. It was obvious she didn't want to cut the conversation short.

"Good-bye, sister," he answered softly, not wanting to end the conversation either. Pushing the sadness away, he quickly checked out and drove home. He was eager to work out, and then plan. He smirked as he reached into his coat pocket, and fingered the piece of paper that held the note to himself. He had a lot of planning to do.

* * *

**A.N. Oh, my God. You guys are awesome! Thank you so much for the reviews, they really made my day. I say that a lot, don't I. But it doesn't mean it's not true!**

**In answer to a question I got in a guest review: The reason Canada's so sick is because it's part of the plot. (There's a plot? What is this foreign thing?) All will be answered and become clear...eventually. **

**Anyways, please review! I get valuable input from you people and it makes me really happy. Even if people don't like it, I want to know. Thank you!**


	5. Chapter 5

It was simple, really. Taking over the world isn't that hard. The first time he did it, he tried the straight forward tactic, and that failed miserably.

Ivan sighed and rubbed his forehead. Why couldn't his drunk self be more specific? The note, which said _Sneaky World Domination_, was wrinkled from the Russian's constant folding and unfolding. It was as if he was hoping to find something new whenever he reread it, hoping to find the answers.

As hopeless as he felt right now, he knew that he had thought up of this before, while drunk off his ass, and he can think of it again. He rolled his eyes at himself, and stood. Moaning and groaning at his desk was going to get him nowhere. Ivan rolled his shoulders and made his way to his gym, knowing that the only way to truly remember his plan was to completely empty his head.

He disappeared into the back room that he had converted into a gym after his sisters moved out. At the thought of his sisters he rushed to the front of the house to lock the front door, and then spent ten minutes locking his windows. Natalia was still on the continent. He wasn't taking any chances.

His gym was probably the one thing he splurged on, except for his vodka, and he was very proud of it. It wasn't often he got to actually use it. He stepped barefoot into the room, his feet bouncing slightly on the wrestling mat that lined the place.

A rope that hung from the ceiling, and he went to that first. After rubbing the sweat from his hands, he jumped up on the rope and climbed it army-style; no feet. He climbed to the top, slapped the ceiling, and shimmied his way down, careful not to burn the palms of his hands. Before his feet could touch the ground, he started climbing again. He did this for several minutes, going up and down, up and down, refusing to count how many times he repeated this.

When his arms started burning, he moved on to the bench press. He benched for a long time, gradually adding weight to the standard forty-five pound bar, until he could press no more. He took a five minute break and then started the leg press.

After that was rope climbing again. He worked this rotation for hours, constantly moving and only pausing long enough for some water now and then. Finally, well past sundown and probably into the next day, Ivan literally collapsed on the wrestling mat. His muscles trembled in exhaustion, his breath was ragged. His hands were bloodied from the rope.

Despite the pain that wracked his body, he felt content. His mind was pleasantly empty and he had long before worked the stress out of his system.

He sat up. Now, it was time for some meditation.

* * *

Matthew Williams was not a weak man. He was quite strong, and very agile. He could play hockey with the best of them, and often did. There was something soothing about the _swish_ of ice under his blades, the cool air that would filter through his hair and redden his face. He was ruthless on the ice, a focused player set to win. He had no qualms about running into other players, about shoving them into walls, about "accidentally" tripping them.

But when he wasn't playing hockey, he was rock climbing. He would often visit the mountains in his country and climb them, sometimes spending days at the summit. It was an escape of sorts, a place he could go without real life intruding. He was also quite flexible, and had perfect control over his muscles. He could pull himself up into a handstand easier than most people can get up from the floor.

But now, here at the rink, Matthew sat with his head between his knees to stop himself from passing out when he tried to stand too quickly.

Decided that maybe skating wasn't good for him right now, he started to untie his skates. Prying them off his feet proved difficult, and he eventually settled for unlacing the skates all together.

Checking them back into the rental service that the rink provided, he smiled wanly at the girl behind the counter when she asked if he was okay. He pushed through the glass double doors, clutching Kumajirou to his chest.

"This was a bad idea, Kumayura," he mumbled.

"I told you so."

"So you did. I just have to learn to listen, is all." He smiled at his friend before scooting him up to his shoulders to get his car keys from his jeans' pocket. But the vibration of his phone diverted his hand, and he flipped his phone open.

"Hello?"

"Comrade Matvey."

"Russia? Long time no talk," he said, teasing slightly.

"You are kidding, no? I do not have time for jokes." The cold voice on the other end made the Canadian shiver.

"So, what's with the call?" Matthew all but whispered.

"I wish to talk to you. It is urgent that we speak face to face."

"A-all right. When?" It _wasn't_ all right, but he wasn't going to let Russia know that. The man could smell weakness a mile away.

"As soon as you can get on a plane and get to my house." The line was disconnected and Matthew was left staring at his phone like an idiot.

"Okay then," he said, slipping his phone into his pocket and fishing out his keys. "Looks like I get to go on another trip!"

A few well-placed phone calls and a drive later, he was in his house, packing.

"Kumajirou, Mr. Harper said he would come by this evening to collect you. Will you be all right by yourself?"

"Of course. Who are you?"

"Canada." He grinned at his friend and gave him one last pat on the head before heading outside to his car, and from there, the airport.

* * *

Ivan ended the call, a smirk on his face.

He had finally remembered his plan, about halfway through his meditation technique. He had to force himself to finish it, for ending it early or abruptly could damage his calm, and that's all he really had anymore.

It was simple, as far as plans go. He'd get the weakest, yet largest country, in this case Canada, to join him. Voluntarily or not. He'd then use Canada as bait to get at least America under his rule, if not England and France as well.

America was the crux of this whole plan. Ivan was taking a huge risk in taking Canada hostage simply because no one seemed able to remember him. That damned American may concede to become one with Russia for Canada, but then forget about it.

But Ivan could be very...convincing. He smirked. He hoped that the Canadian got here soon, so that he could get started.

excitement shivered up his spine. He couldn't wait.

* * *

Sadly, however, the flight got delayed. Matthew groaned and cursed with the rest of them. He was dizzy and headachy, and was looking forward to a sleeping pill and an eight hour nap in a ten and a half hour trip. But no, weather had to act up and snow in the airport, shutting down the landing and take off lanes.

He stared out the window, watching as flurries of snow and ice was pummeled into the windows and walls of the airport by the wind. _Damn it,_ he thought to himself. He was looking forward to this, thinking that after the business, whatever it is, was discussed he would tour around Russia, have a little vacation.

But now it was delayed. He rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone, speed dialing Russia.

"Hello?" the gruff voice answered, making Matthew tremble with fear. He wasn't going to like this.

"Russia, it's me, Canada. My flight got delayed indefinitely and I'm snowed in at the airport." There was silence on the other line, and Matthew rushed to finish. "I'll let you know as soon as we are cleared for flight."

"Just get here as soon as you can." Russia hung up on him, _again_. The Canadian seriously considered not going at all, simply because he was doing a favor for the Russian and he kept treating him disrespectfully. But, if the proud Russian needed help, he would do what he could.

He regretted that thought four hours later. He had curled up with his bags in a corner and a book in his hand. He was pressed against the window on his left side, and he glanced out every now and then. Sometimes it was to gauge the weather, and sometimes to look at his reflection.

He was thin. Painfully thin. He refused to categorize himself anymore, but instead studied his new face, an oddly detached feeling spreading through his chest. He shook his head at himself and turned back to the book, but didn't read.

Matthew had misgivings about his trip to Russia. They twisted in his gut, making his already sensitive stomach ache even more. He questioned his reluctance to go visit the man. Russia wasn't overly rude to him, save that one time he deliberately sat on him at a G8 meeting. The man was scary as hell, though, and creepy to boot. His child-like smiles easily chilled people to the bone and find an excuse to stay away from him.

Matthew shook his head. It would be like when Alfred visited him the other day, he tried to convince himself. They'll talk a bit of business, maybe share a meal, and Matthew would be free to roam the giant country.

Nothing would go wrong, he was sure of it.

* * *

Ivan stared at the circuitry that was once his phone that laid across the room from him on the floor. This wouldn't do. He tried to school his emotions, but the pure and unreasonable rage that blossomed in his chest when he heard that the Canadian's flight got delayed blinded him. He took a deep breath.

It would take approximately ten hours for him to arrive in Moscow. And depending on the weather from the airport in Toronto, he was looking at least a twenty-four hour delay. One day. It wasn't a big deal.

Ivan stood up and started pacing, his fists clenched. A day was too long to wait, but wait he must. He can't let his greed get the better of him. One day is not going to make or break his plan!

But it was no use. He couldn't calm down. Before he destroyed anything else, he went to the gym, shedding his coat and scarf and leaving them carelessly on the floor. He went directly to the sandbag that was suspended in the middle of the room and started punching.

It wasn't until the bag's seam split and Ivan was staring at a pile of sand on his feet, sweat slicked hair in his eyes and his breath loud in his ears, did he realize his blunder. His emotions were like a volatile weapon. A weapon that couldn't be used, should the Canadian prove that he can use them against himself.

Resolving to lock his emotions in the back of his mind, he stepped away from the sand, though there was a fine coating of it on his feet where it had stuck to the sweat collected there. Numbly, he grabbed a broom and cleaned the mess up as well as he could.

Then, he decided to jump into the shower. The icy hot needles of water pushed away the chill of General Winter, even as it turned his pale skin bright red.

He was okay. He was okay.

* * *

**A.N.: Thank you for your wonderful reviews, _larissita_! This last one made me smile, despite my hangover ;).**

**Ugh. I hate hate hate hate hate this chapter. It's terrible. It's awkward and obviously a filler/transitional chapter. But, after I rewrote the fucker seventeen times, I decided I'd better go with the best I had. Ta-da!**

**Warning: Next chapter is when shit hits the fan and this fic earns its "M" rating. **

**Also, please review! They provide valuable feedback, so I can provide less crap (read the above...or rather don't. This chapter is horrendous). I really do appreciate any reviews I get! Thank you!  
**


	6. Chapter 6

_His arms were bound behind his back with handcuffs, which in turn were chained to the old-fashioned water heater that sat against the wall beneath the window. His feet were shackled together as well, and a length of chain ran between the chain of his shackles and the chain of his handcuffs, effectively hog-tying him. He had a cloth gag shoved between his teeth._

_His body shuddered violently as coldness racked through his body. It seeped up through the wooden floor boards, soaking into him and freezing the metal. He was sure he would have frost burns on his wrists; his jeans separated the shackles from the cold metal, thus saving his legs from the same fate. _

_From his position on the floor, he could see nothing but a door that led out into the hallway, and a pipe with a faucet on the end that leaned against the wall a little over a yard from the door. It was Russia's favorite weapon, one that he carried with him at all times. The implied threat was obvious, and the Canadian shivered in fear._

_He glanced around the room in vain, unwilling to accept that he was well and truly trapped. He shifted his legs, but that pulled on his arms and made the chains that bound him clank together. The sound was probably not very loud, but he didn't want to take the chance of Russia hearing him and paying him a little visit._

_He sighed and stared at the door, refusing to budge his eyes to the left four feet to see the length of battered iron. He started chewing on the cloth gag, hoping to separate the fibers. A free mouth wouldn't get him any closer to freedom, but it would mean that he was less bound that he was at the moment._

_The house creaked as it settled, and Matthew froze at the sound. Wide purple eyes stared at the door, fear and panic constricting his throat as he hoped against hope that Russia would not come through the door._

_The varnished door knob rattled a bit, and the Canadian bit back a gasp. He hastily shut his eyes in the pretense of sleep, once more hoping that the Russian would leave him be._

_The door opened, and it took every ounce of acting Matthew had to not flinch. He heard boots, soft and sure, walk across the room and come to a stop near his head._

_ "Comrade Matvey?" the deep voice asked, a cold boot gently nudging his face. "Wake up, Matvey." The boot moved to his shoulder and started shaking him. _

* * *

"Comrade Matvey!" Matthew woke with a gasp and a large Russian looming over him, impatience in his eyes. Sweat dotted his forehead, and Matthew's stomach gurgled ominously. The ever present headache flared to life behind his eyes, as if it were waiting for him to awaken to curse him with pain.

"Yes? Is everything all right?" His voice was hoarse. _Had he been screaming?_

"You were making a lot of noise, Comrade," Russia said.

"Oh! I'm sorry," Matthew gasped. "I was just having a bad dream."

The Russian nodded before sitting down on the edge of the bed. An awkward silence hung heavy between them until Russia said, "It is customary to speak of them, da?"

Matthew stared at him. He was looking patiently at the Canadian, eyes lit with a bit of concern and...was that humor? He narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

"I can't remember it," he lied. Matthew doubted that Russia wished to hear about himself tying his guests up and leaving them in a cold room. He didn't want to give the Russian any ideas, after all.

Besides, it would cause worry and concern because it would be believed that the Canadian didn't trust Russia.

"I'm sorry for bothering you," he said, twisting the thick blanket that covered him.

"It is fine," Russia said. Dark eyes regarded him for a moment before he added, "No doubt, you wish to return to sleep, da?"

"Um, well, yes." He severely doubted he would be getting any more rest tonight, but he refused to tell the Russian that. It could be taken as a weakness, and that was one of several things you didn't show a super power like Ivan Braginski. He smiled somewhat shakily at Russia, and the chilling smile that was returned sent shivers of fear down Matthew's back.

The door thumped shut, and the Canadian slumped back into the extravagant bedding with a sigh. This wasn't going so well. He forced his thoughts to the day before, hoping to ignore his stomach that turned with nerves and sickness.

Yesterday when he got off the plane, the Russian was there to pick him up. He had his hands shoved into his pockets and a scowl on his face. The scarf was hanging loosely, and it fluttered every time the automatic doors behind him opened. Matthew swallowed nervously before getting his baggage and heading over.

He felt like complete and utter shit. He doubted his ability to pretend everything was normal, and the doubt grew stronger as the Russian took in his appearance. For a moment, they had stood there in very awkward silence. Fortunately, the Russian hadn't said anything, but led him outside to the car that had been left on, the heater running. Canada was concerned when he found the car too warm, and hoped that the larger Country didn't notice the sweat that sprung on his forehead.

Talks were to start today. He sighed again and sat up, reaching for his phone. Four in the morning. Not bad at all. Matthew knew that he would be able to stay alert for the majority of the day, and knowing Russia, the talks would be held in the morning. That would leave him the afternoon to sight see and get out of the house.

He checked his phone again. Four oh seven. This was going to be a long morning.

* * *

The talks, it turned out, were going to be delayed. Russia's boss wouldn't be able to make it that day, and he needed to be there. But, Ivan smirked, it's not like the boss knew that Canada was here. What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Or, in this case, foul up his plans to "befriend" Canada.

He looked over at the frail man that stood in front of his stove, making pancakes. The Country was a pancake fanatic. But if his nose wasn't lying to him, these would be very good pancakes. Ivan rolled his eyes at himself.

The Canadian was very sickly looking, he noticed. He had obviously lost weight. Weight he didn't necessarily have to begin with. The cold air that was perpetually in his house probably went straight through him. The skinny wrists that peeked out of the sleeves of the Canadian's hoodie were bony, as were the hands attached to them. His clothes were tremendously baggy on him, except where the jeans were bunched at his waist with a belt.

His face was terrible. His pale skin was almost translucent, revealing a couple of blue veins and causing the black circles under his eyes to look like a huge black smudge on his face. Cheek bones stood out clearly, the cheeks themselves hollow. His hair, usually shiny and healthy, was dry and resembled straw more than hair. It was flat, much like his eyes.

Purple eyes that held so much life and zest just a few short months ago were dull and tired looking. Blood shot through them, and if Ivan wasn't mistaken, the whites were taking on a yellowish tinge.

What gave the Russian pause was the rattling cough that Canada would let loose every once in a while. The Country's lungs sounded as if they were filled with liquid of some kind, and Ivan's thoughts shot to pneumonia. But, something told him that wasn't it. He would look into, though, just to be sure.

"Here you go," Canada said, plopping a steaming plate of cakes in front of Ivan.

"Thank you, Matvey. Will you join me?" he asked when he noticed that Canada had gone to the sink to do dishes.

"I'm not very hungry," Canada said with a slight smile. "Besides, I don't want to leave your kitchen a mess."

Deciding to drop it, Ivan dug in. If his plan were to work, he would have to act oblivious, yet concerned. It was a fine line. He didn't want the smaller man to realize that he was aware of his waning health. At least, not yet.

"This is very good," he muttered, almost against his will.

"Thanks. I absolutely love cooking pancakes. I know several different versions, as well," Canada said brightly. Russia only half listened to the words Canada spouted, describing the different types of cakes from different parts of the world.

* * *

After breakfast, and after the kitchen was sparkling thanks to the cleaning of Canada, they sat in the study. Ivan was behind his desk, "calling" his boss to see what the hold up was. Matthew sat in the over sized chair in front of the desk, courtesy of Russia. Usually, there were two normal wooden chairs for guests, but the larger man had dragged the comfy chair to the desk, ignoring Matthew's protests and glaring at him with his "child-smile" until he sat down.

The study was a large room, with an oak desk dominating most of it. Large windows with heavy cream-colored drapes were behind the desk, allowing natural light to stream into the room. The desk was practically buried under papers. There was a fireplace, currently empty, on the wall adjacent to the windowed wall. The floor was hard wood, but a thick area rug was laid on the ground. Chairs that matched the one he was currently sitting in were arranged in a semi-circle around the fireplace.

In the corner across the room from the fireplace was a smaller desk, this one made of painted plastic and metal. A laptop computer hummed on it, with a rolling chair facing outward, as if Russia had spun around on it and gotten up, not bothering to push it back in. It had a privacy screen on it, and from his angle, Matthew could see nothing but black lines that ran horizontally on the screen.

"Da, I understand," Russia said into the phone, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "We will simply reschedule." He hung up, and sighed. Matthew looked at him questioningly.

"He will not be able to make it," the large Country said. "He is snowed in, completely blocked from even going outside of his house."

"Oh, that's terrible. Does he need help getting dug out?"

"No, Matvey. He said he did not want to disturb us, and urged me to play the tour guide."

Matthew nodded and stared down at the floor. The pain in his head was a constant throb, easily ignored by now. His stomach roiled, still upset from the smell of the pancakes from that morning. He felt overly warm, but he was sure a walk outside in this weather would cool him down. Besides, the fresh air would settle his stomach. He hoped.

"As long as you don't mind," he said eventually. "I know you probably have better things to do than guide me around. I can amuse myself."

"It is, how you say, no big deal. Besides, it has been a long while since I have enjoyed my country's culture."

"All right," Matthew grinned. "Do you know if there's a hockey game that's going to be played? That could be fun."

"I am sure there is." Hockey was a brutal, bloody game. Russia loved it.

* * *

Soon after, as Russia was checking the online schedule for hockey games being played at the Rec Center, Matthew was getting ready to go.

His boots were a tad ratty, but still water proof. His coat was brand new, and wonderfully comfortable. Those paired with gloves and a scarf (with a matching hat, of course), he was ready to go.

He watched as Russia shrugged a coat over his scarf, and they left.

Ivan watched the Canadian carefully in the Center. They sat in the bleachers behind the Plexiglas wall, watching the game. Well, Canada was.

But even now, with his cheeks flushed with the biting cold of the arena, he looked terrible. Ivan shook his head, and turned his head back to the game. His thoughts were elsewhere, though. As the players glided across the ice, his thoughts were centered on the Country that was sitting next to him, wondering how he could help him. And also wondering what he could get in return.

* * *

**A.N.: I'm back! So, yeah, this took a ridiculously long time to write. In between taking care of sick roomies, and then me myself getting sick, there was not much time that I wasn't doped up on meds to write. And a whole shit-ton of, well, shit, from my _wonderful_ friend Real Life made this chapter very hard to write.**

**Thank you for all the reviews, follows and favorites! They made my day when I checked my email and they were piled in there, despite the fact that I hadn't updated this for what feels like forever. Please read and review, and enjoy!**

**P.S.: I hate pancakes. I hate writing about pancakes. Damn you, you pancake loving freak!**


	7. Chapter 7

Russia was looking at him. Again. Matthew resisted the urge to acknowledge him and instead stayed focused on the television in the living room. He had been invited to watch a movie with the large Country, and was now comfortably wrapped in a blanket, a steaming mug of what he hoped was potato soup in hand.

Miraculously, his stomach wasn't acting up as much today. The smell of food didn't send him reeling for the bathroom, but he still couldn't eat. Which was a shame, because the soup smelled delicious.

Gunshots from the movie sounded, drawing his attention back to the screen. But even this action film couldn't hold his attention for long, and he soon found his mind wandering once more.

He'd been staying at Russia's house for about a week, now. The Russian's boss was sick with a cold, and had been unable to make it for talks. When he asked Russia what the talks were to be about, all he would say was, "A merger."

A merger of what? Matthew was under no illusions about Russia. The Country still wished for everyone to become one with him, willingly or not. A merger suggested that he wanted Canada to become part of him, but if that was the case, why not talk to Mr. Harper? It's not like Matthew could take any actions by himself. Surely Russia knew that.

But, on the other hand, he didn't want to stress too badly about it. He was relaxed, more so than he ever could be back at home. He always had to be ready for Al. His brother would often come over and harass him; guilt-tripping him until he "played" with him. Or, even worse, his brother would sic Cuba on him when the two Countries weren't happy with each other. This happened more than he was willing to admit, even to himself.

But this past week, while cold, had been wonderful. Russia was a tad stiff towards him, but that was only to be expected. Just as it was expected for the larger Country to scare the shit out of him on a nearly constant basis.

But they shared good times, as well. The hockey game, for one. The movie. More often than not, though, Matthew would read a book in front of the lit fireplace and a blanket around him in the study, while Russia would work on his laptop.

They were nice, relaxing times. They were working miracles on his health, although he still felt very unwell most times.

* * *

Russia glanced at the smaller man sitting in his living room. He had relaxed over the course of the week, which was good news. He still wouldn't eat, which wasn't so good. But occasionally Ivan had seen him take some sort of pills; supplements, he supposed. The Canadian wouldn't be able to survive on those for long.

There was something seriously wrong with him. According to the research Ivan had looked for on the internet, Canada was either dying or has a slight flu. Needless to say, it wasn't very helpful.

Ivan glanced back at the television screen. What could cause these symptoms? Sickness? Was there something going on with his land? He knew of the border raids, but a little thing like that shouldn't cause this massive onslaught of illness.

Stress? He glanced over at Canada, gauging him. He had seemed rather stressed at the beginning of the week, but who wouldn't after being delayed for thirty-six hours before meeting one of the scariest men in the world?

He knew he was scary, and he often used that to his advantage. But surely his appearance wouldn't have caused the amount of stress that his symptoms were suggesting he was under.

Ivan snuck another glance, watched as Canada took a sniff of his soup. He still wouldn't eat.

This was worrying, yet at the same time a boon of sorts. If that idiot America knew that his brother was sick there was no doubt the "hero" would let his brother leave the continent. As far as he knew, Canada's phone hadn't rung once. Which meant that no one knew where he was or how he was doing.

He watched as the smaller man took another sniff of soup, the movie enthralling him.

"It is not poisoned," Ivan pointed out, frowning slightly. Canada started at his voice, which had been unintentionally loud.

"O-oh, I know that," Canada stuttered, grinning.

"Then eat."

The Canadian looked down as if considering before glancing back up at Ivan.

"I seem to have some sort of stomach virus," he said, eyes darting to the left. The Russian narrowed his eyes. "A slight headache and an upset stomach, nothing serious. But I don't want to waste your hard work in case I get sick."

"If you are sure," Ivan said slowly. At the Canadian's quick nod, they both turned back to the movie. Ivan noticed that the Canadian was a lot less relaxed now.

* * *

After the movie had ended, Canada snuck to his room, unwilling to spend more time with the overly observant Russian.

He'd just about had a heart attack when Russia told him to eat. He'd been so tempted to take a sip of the soup. He probably could have handled a few bites of it, but when he had glanced down to take a bite, the urge to not eat was great.

Too great for him to not obey.

So, he had said something about a flu, or a stomach virus, and they had both gone back to the movie.

But he was careful to not let his guard down again, and had set the mug of now-cold soup on the floor beside his chair. He wished even now that Kumajirou was with him, simply because he would have eaten it.

Canada stared at the bed spread that he was sitting on, and berated himself. He should be asking for help, right?

No. No one had to know.

But, he needed to get better. If not for himself, then for his country.

What did the country care? Even if he died, which was highly unlikely, he would just come back. After all, it's not like the country Canada had died, just its personification.

But they needed him, right?

He shook his head of his confusing and conflicting thoughts and laid down on his bed, the softness easing the mild ache in his back and shoulders.

He drifted off to a light sleep, curling up in his slumber into a ball. Sweat dripped down his temple and face even as he shivered with cold. A clank against his window almost woke him, and he jerked, but the nap was to last and he settled into REM sleep.

A pair of jealously glowing eyes glared at him through the window, and it started snowing.

* * *

The next morning dawned, sparkling off of the snow that had fallen the night before. It hurt Matthew's eyes and he had to squint to see out of his window. His head was a tangle of curls that he tried to brush out as he stood at the cold glass.

The Canadian put his comb down on the sill, and the glint of something other than snow caught his eye. There on the ground was a ladder, frosted and laying pathetically on its side next to the house beneath his window.

He shook his head at the antics of the Russian people, who didn't put ladders in their sheds, and headed downstairs.

The coffee was already on, which meant that Russia was up and probably working. Matthew grabbed himself a mug and the sugar, and prepared his coffee.

He sat at the table and sipped his hot drink, letting it wake him up. He had slept surprisingly well, and through the night. He took a sip, and his stomach growled.

Matthew glanced down at his stomach in disbelief.

Hunger?

Could it be? His stomach rumbled again, and he couldn't help the grin that split his face. This wasn't nausea, that was for sure. This was glorious, wonderful hunger.

What better way to celebrate that with pancakes?

After rummaging around in the kitchen's cupboards for a few minutes, he found the things he needed for his breakfast of choice.

He pondered for a moment, deciding if it was worth it to risk Russia's wrath by interrupting his work. He'd found out the hard way a few days ago that you didn't bother Russia unless the building was on fire. He shrugged and started to fry the batter he had mixed, figuring that the smell would lure the larger man downstairs. A few minutes later he sat at the table with a stack of cakes and no Russian. It hadn't worked?

But...pancakes. He glanced at the steaming stack of cakes on the plate before shrugging and digging in. And in true Canadian custom, the cakes were streaked with maple. He sighed happily and dug in, deciding that if Russia wanted to eat, he would come downstairs on his own.

They were hot and buttery, and heavy on his stomach. But it was a satisfactory heaviness that made his eyes droop with contentedness.

He could only finish one pancake out of the whole stack, but that was completely understandable. After eating little to nothing for just under two months, he was surprised that he could eat as much as he did.

"Matvey?"

Matthew started, falling off of his chair. "Yes?" he squeaked. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, where they slipped from the fall.

"Did you make pancakes?"

"Oh, yes. I did. I-I hope you don't mind," Matthew answered, scrambling to his feet. "I did just steal some of your food. I'm sorry."

"It is fine, Matvey," Russia said soothingly. Unfortunately, this had the exact opposite effect on Matthew, who froze in terror and fear. "I am glad you are eating."

"Ah, yeah." The Russian moved around Matthew, towards the fridge. "It must have been a twenty-four hour bug or something."

The larger Country froze for a split second, but the Canadian didn't notice. He was too busy gathering his dishes up and sticking them in the dishwasher. The tinkle of a glass bottle bumping into another glass bottle was unmistakable, and Matthew turned from the sink to see what Russia was doing.

"Is that vodka?" he asked unwillingly. The question all but forced itself out of his mouth, and he instantly cringed.

"Da."

"But," Matthew stuttered, "It's nine in the morning!"

"And?" Russia started making his way out of the kitchen, bottle in hand. "This is the 'Water of Life' for us Russians," he continued, ignoring the small protests of the other Country. "It will take a lot more than one bottle of vodka to get me drunk."

"If you say so," Matthew said doubtfully. A Country the Russian may be, but that doesn't change the fact that the body is a human one, and therefore susceptible to anything a normal person was. Including drunkenness. Russia shot him a look before going upstairs again, his heavy boots falling heavily on the wood.

Matthew finished his dishes and stuck the leftovers in the freezer before heading towards his own room. After the heavy breakfast he had, he needed a nap.

But when he got to his room, he shivered. The window on the other side of the room was wide open, the wind pushing loose flakes of snow into a drift on the carpet.

Matthew frowned. He didn't remember leaving the window open. He was fairly certain that he hadn't touched the window at all.

No wait, he remembered. He had touched it just that morning, when he was preparing for the day. He had set his comb on the sill, his fingers brushing against the glass.

Maybe that slight movement opened it. As impossible as that sounded, he knew from experience in his own house that there were tricky windows like that. In fact, in the living room of his house, there was a window that would creak open if one looked at it wrong.

"But what to do with this snow?" he asked himself, staring at the small drift. "Shove it outside, I guess."

He grabbed his gloves from his coat's pocket and put them on to protect his hands as he scooped the ice and snow back outside.

He managed to get rid of it all in one go, and leaned out the window to brush the coldness off of his gloves. He glanced down at the ladder that was leaning against the house.

Wait, what? Matthew glanced down again, leaning farther out. The ladder was laying on its side, the rungs facing him earlier today, wasn't it? Now all he could see of it was a strip of metal from it leaning parallel to the house.

There were no footprints that he could see, not around the ladder nor leading to or from this side of the house. He frowned, but wrote it off as a figment of his imagination caused by illness and hunger.

But there was something weird about this house. He made sure to double check the window before taking his nap, unwilling to accept that he was making things up. He wasn't going crazy.

Was he?

* * *

**A.N.: Another chapter! With pancakes *gag*.**

**First off, I must apologize. I could name off all the reasons why it has taken me forever and a day to update, but that would be boring and make me sound whiny (which I am), so I'll just say this: Real Life kicked me in my metaphorical balls. With steel-toed boots. I am still recovering, so I can't promise that the next update will be anytime soon. Within the month is the best I can promise you.**

**Thank you to everyone that reviewed, favorited and followed! It was amazingly awesome to open my email tonight and see my inbox spammed with alerts from FFN. You guys are awesome!**

**Anywho, if you enjoyed (or see a plot hole or something) please review! They give me the inspiration and the motivation to write faster, if not better.**

**See ya next time!**


	8. Chapter 8

There was a tapping on his window, but Matthew was too far gone to do anything except twitch in his sleep. A shadow slowly eased the window open, careful not to disturb the couple of inches of snow on the outside sill in the process. Long, gray-blonde tresses lifted slightly in the breeze, and the owner of the hair cursed in her mind. She glanced over at the sleeping bundle that was the Canadian, making sure he was still asleep, before she crept into the house.

She softly shut the window before simply standing there, a rough canvas bag over her shoulder, shivering. She glanced once more at Matthew before creeping to his closet and hiding within its depths, keeping what little clothes the Canadian had in front of her. She settled down on the floor, and pulled the bag off of her shoulder. Digging around inside it, she brought out some cheese and bread.

As she munched on her late night dinner, Natalia smiled in the darkness.

* * *

Ivan woke up early, the dawn sun's searing light inching along his bedspread. He rubbed his face and shoved fingers through his hair, preparing himself for the cold dash to the bathroom for his daily shower.

Cold air rose from the floor to meet his bare feet and, with barely a sound, he ran for his bathroom and the rug that lay on the floor. He turned the hot water on full blast, allowing the roar to clear and relax his mind. Violet eyes lost focus as his thoughts turned inward, comparing his work and free time today.

He stepped into the shower and pulled the glass door shut. The recurring thought of the Canadian's health took up residence in his mind, and he frowned. In the two weeks he'd been staying at Ivan's house, he had gotten considerably better.

But he didn't want Canada's health to get too much better. That would defeat the whole purpose of him coming over. No, he figured that the fragile and well-intentioned Canadian was due for some guilt.

He suppressed a grin as he got out and dried off. He was examining himself in the foggy mirror, once more shoving fingers through his now-wet hair, when he saw something flicker in his peripheral vision.

Unease flooded his system and he hurriedly pulled his towel about his waist, shielding him. He glanced nervously around the spacious bathroom before stalking to his bedroom to get dressed, making sure to put on his boxers under the towel, ensuring that there wouldn't be exposure.

After dressing and shrugging on his scarf, he bounded downstairs. Smelling the familiar scent of maple tinged pancakes, he grinned; it seemed that the guilt tripping could begin.

Shoving all but the most stern expression from his face, Ivan made sure to sneak into his kitchen and slam a cupboard door, taking glee in the startled jump that Canada made. The little squeaking shriek was a bonus, one that he simultaneously enjoyed and hated.

"Where is my vodka, Comrade Matvey?" he asked, letting danger and malice drip from his tongue.

"I-I don't know, Russia," he said quietly. Ivan had to strain to hear him. "Wherever you put it last, I suppose." Everything about the smaller man was nervous, from the twining of his fingers around the spatula in his hands to the slightly shaking glasses on his face that reflected the sunlight right into the Russian's eyes.

"The last place I saw it, Comrade, was _here_," he said pointedly, a finger indicating the cupboard that he had just slammed. "Seeing as it is not there, and you have been the only person that has been here, it is more than likely that you have moved it. So, I am forced to repeat myself: _ Where is my vodka?_"

Canada was quaking, now. He was chattering like a scared rodent, and Ivan cherished that sound. It was a sound he had heard often and each time he got a Country to utter it, he basked in accomplishment.

"I couldn't tell you," Canada said, visually gathering his courage and stilling his hands, if not the slight shivering of his body.

The Russian was taken a bit aback. The only time he had really seen the quiet Country stand up for himself was when he was facing off against his obnoxious brother and France. And even then, it was as if he expected them to ignore him.

But not now. There was something different about the Country.

Maybe he should have taken the smaller man down a notch a touch sooner.

"Comrade," he started, "You must think me a lush."

"W-what?"

"What with me storming down here and demanding alcohol. I feel terrible, Matvey, I really do. How could I have forgotten that you still have that stomach flu? And yet here you are, cooking breakfast!" The fake sincerity was easy to pull off, Ivan thought with an inward smirk.

"I-it's no big deal," Canada blustered. "Just some pancakes."

"Still, though, it means a great deal to me. Most Countries are either frightened senseless around me or they run away."

Canada gave a tilted smile before turning pack to the burning pancake. Ivan heard him mutter something about "Kuraijuma" but was unsure as to what he was saying.

"It's not really a big deal," the Canadian said, pouring the last of the batter into the skillet and rinsing out the glass bowl the liquid had been it before watching the cooking food intently, watching for the bubbles that were starting to rise. "Really, it's the least I can do for someone who just randomly invited me over to talk."

The not-so-subtle jab was taken with some surprise and disgruntle-ment. Ivan mentally scratched his chin before readjusting his scarf and running ideas through his head.

The mental time bomb he had just planted wouldn't go off for a while. Maybe it was time to bring his boss into it.

With a curt nod of thanks, he grabbed his plate of pancakes, the syrup and a glass of water up to his study. After locking the door securely, he grinned unpleasantly and plopped the food and what not on his desk before picking up the phone and calling Mr. Harper.

* * *

Canada glanced around before slipping the burnt pancake, the one he designated as his, into the trash, vowing to take it out after he worked up the nerve to ask Russia where he was to take it.

After loading and starting the dishwasher, he went to the living room and grabbed the remote. He flicked through channels, not really paying attention. Rather, he was preoccupied with his thoughts and the unusual behavior of the normally abrasive Russia.

Mix that with the feeling that there was a monster in his closet when he awoke this morning, and it made for a very jumpy Matthew. He forcibly refocused his attention to the screen and stopped at a hockey game.

While he has seen this particular game before, he couldn't help but be enthralled. The game was full of contradictions: gracefully bulky men beating the crap out of each other while balancing on a knife's edge, a wooden stick smacking the hardened rubber puck around like it was nothing (while in reality it could break your wrist), the heat of exhaustion when it was all said and done mixed with the misty breath caused by the ice and the chilled arena.

Not to mention that this game was particularly brutal. Matthew couldn't help but wince in sympathy when the away team fouled after a member hit another guy in the face, making his nose break.

Within moments of forced concentration he immersed himself in the game, allowing it to flow through him and soothe the odd feelings he had gotten from the Russian earlier.

During a timeout, Canada stood and stretched. His back, which had been bent nearly in half so he could rest his elbows on his knees, cracked. He sighed and then shivered as the cool air of Russia's home hit him. deciding that a long-sleeved t-shirt just wasn't going to keep him warm, he rushed upstairs to grab his beloved hoodie.

Eager to return to the game before the time out ended, he shuffled down the hallway of the second floor with the hoodie thrown over his head and his arms struggling to make sense of the sleeves.

Just as he got his arms through, Russia's voice thundered through the thick wooden door of his study, which Matthew had suddenly found himself outside of. He gulped and cursed his curiosity. He stepped closer to the door, and listened.

"What do you mean, Harper is not there?"

Silence.

"When do you expect him to return?"

Silence.

"Really."

Matthew was very confused, and decided to book it for the living room. Halfway down the steps, he remembered that his hoodie was still bunched at his chest, and hurriedly pulled it down.

The couch was, surprisingly, still warm from his body heat earlier. He sighed as he settled down into the softness, and returned to the game, which had restarted a while ago. He grinned as his eyelids slowly started to slide shut.

"Matvey?"

He jolted awake, eyes wide behind his skewed glasses and, more than likely, wrinkles from his hoodie on his face.

"Matvey, how are you feeling?"

The unaccustomed gentleness in the large Country threw the sleepy Matthew for a loop, but he answered automatically with a dull, "Fine."

As he woke up a bit more, he looked over the pondering Russian.

He was decked out in a soft, almost velvet-looking coat of a silver-blue color that gleamed in the low afternoon light, with a highly contrasting black silk scarf that covered his neck.

"Really?"

Really, what? Matthew racked his sleepy brain, trying to connect the seemingly random question with an earlier conversation.

"Oh, well, yes." And surprisingly, he did feel fine. A very low throbbing in his head was more than tolerable. The upset stomach was simple heartburn. He was not dizzy, and he did not have to lie. "Yes, I feel fine."

"I see."

After a tense silence, for which the Russian seemed famous for, Matthew asked, "So, what's with the get-up?"

"I was invited to my boss's for dinner. Normally, I would not bother with dressing up, but it is always a good thing to keep those closest to you on their toes, da?"

The smirk, almost playful, on the Russian's face was echoed by a grin on the Canadian's.

"That's true enough. I remember Mr. Harper all but having kittens when I let Al dress me in hemp and tie-dye." Those were... Canada got lost in though as he tried to come up with a suitable adjective. Times. Just times. Those were times that he was there and awake for.

Did he wish he wasn't?

Yes.

Will he ever be rid of the sight of he and Al dressed in purple and peace signs in his brain?

Ha.

"So, I'm taking it that I will be by myself this evening," Matthew said. The smooth scarf fluttered when the Russian nodded.

"Da. But, it will be no big deal for you. There is hockey on the television." Another playful smirk.

Matthew wasn't sure which was worse: A playful Russia or the mean, homicidal Russia.

* * *

**A.N.: What is this black magic? An update almost TWO WEEKS AFTER I SAID THERE WOULD BE MORE!**

**I'm a terrible person, especially that this chapter is about two hundred words short of my two thousand word-a-chapter thingy. And, really, I could sit here and name off all of the things that has delayed me and my precious internet, but I won't. If you live the Nebraska area, you probably already know that snow kinda hit the fan on one side of the state, and tornadoes on the other side.**

**ANYWAY, please forgive me. I don't know when I will be able to steal my neighbor's internet again, so the updates are gonna be sporadic at best for a bit.**

**On the bright side, I'm turning 22 in five days and am getting a guinea pig sometime today. I'm ridiculously excited.**

**Please, please, please review. Tell me that it's amazing or tell me it's shit and I ought to be ashamed of myself. I don't care. Feedback is feedback. **

**And thank you, all of you, that has favorited and followed my story. It makes warm fuzzies erupt in my belly and makes me smile.**

**Thank you! **


	9. Chapter 9

Magic was something that Alfred, the All-Knowing and Wise, didn't believe in. He thought the omnipresent cold around Russia was due to his rather chilly personality. The reason everyone's eyes skipped over Matthew was because he was too quiet, and easily missed. Alfred was convinced that Arthur was talking out his ass whenever he brought up his Black Magic. It never occurred to him that the reason that he looked the same now as he did in 1773 was because of magic.

But, Ivan knew better. He could feel the strands of it in the air around him, wrapping him in the stuff. He wasn't sure if it was England's brand of magic, since his consisted of cursing and summoning, but it was there all the same.

It was the reason that General Winter always hovered around him, and why he could physically remove his heart and live. It was also the reason he was startled every time he saw the other Nation in his kitchen in the mornings.

Matthew was a peaceful Country, Ivan mused as he sat at his breakfast bar and watched the smaller man pour an amber syrup into a bowl of batter. He was hard to anger, and when he was angry he easily got over it. It didn't seem to bother him that he was easy to over look, and hard to listen to.

But, then, Ivan didn't know Canada very well. He could be acting for all the Russian knew.

"Morning," Canada said, an edge in his voice. That usually meant that he'd just repeated himself.

"Mm," Ivan nodded. "What are you cooking, Matvey?"

"Oh, uhm," he stuttered as if he just realized that he may have over stepped his welcome in the house, "P-pancakes. I hope you don't m-mind?"

"I did not mind yesterday, or the day before, did I?"

"Well, n-no." Canada shook his head, causing his rebellious curl to bounce free from the ponytail he'd brushed his hair into, to keep it out of the food. He glared at the curl over his glasses before turning to the stove and pouring batter into a heated pan.

Ivan observed his movements, taking note of everything.

Canada, all in all, looked a lot better. Ivan was unsure as to what was causing the younger Country's sickness, but time away from home seemed to have helped. He cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the blonde.

"I must admit something, Comrade," Ivan said carefully, putting just the right amount of guilt into his voice. "My boss is not aware of your presence here in Moscow."

"Excuse me?" For once he didn't stutter, or sound unsure, and Ivan almost smirked. As it was, he glanced down so the other wouldn't see the dark amusement in his eyes. "I've been here for three weeks, almost a month, and your boss didn't _know_?"

"Da."

"Then why was I brought here?" Fear had crept into his tone, and Ivan knew that he was imagining all the things that he had more than likely heard from England and France about him.

"You were not well, Matvey." Gentleness was not a natural emotion that the Russian felt, but he forced himself to act. "At first, I decided to wait and see if anyone would notice."

"How would you know?" Canada's wide purple eyes were glazed with memories, trying to figure out where Ivan had been to know about his sickness. Ivan drank the confusion of the other country.

"I have my ways." There was no way Ivan was going to say that he had followed the Canadian around for a while after the meeting. "I made up my mind when your _brother_," he couldn't help the malice he felt, "did not even notice that something was wrong with you."

Canada turned around and turned the stove off, breakfast half-cooked. "And you did?"

"Da, Matvey, I did. The weight loss, the large black circles under your eyes, the loss of an appetite. You were not even passionate about hockey."

Canada gulped. "Then, if you noticed," here he paused, as if unsure if he was being made fun of, "then do you know what is happening to me?"

Truthfully, Ivan didn't have a clue. Never before had he heard of a Nation getting sick, at least to that degree, that didn't involve their lands. As far as he knew, and he had researched quite a bit, Canada should feel fine. Maybe a slight headache from the drug raids at his border, but that should be it. Not this violent sickness that had almost killed him.

"Your people are rejecting you," Ivan lied smoothly.

Canada froze, and the spatula that he was holding in his hand clattered to the floor. Ivan resisted the urge to flinch at the loud sound.

"R-rejecting m-ee?" he repeated in an oddly high-pitched voice. Ivan stood and walked around the bar to place his large hands on the skinny shoulders of Canada. He knew that his skin was cold, and he hoped that the temperature change would snap the Nation out of his shock. Cruel, he knew; Ivan could barely imagine the feelings that the fairly young Country was feeling. But it was needed if his plan was to work.

"Yes, Matvey."

"What will happen to me?" he asked, suddenly clutching Ivan's coat with his hands, and it took everything within Ivan to not fling the pathetic man's hands from his person.

"You shall cease to exist. Canada, the land mass, that is, will more than likely be ceded to your brother, and you will fall from memory."

It had taken Ivan days to figure out his way through the lie he was now spouting. He could only hope that he had built enough of a relationship with Canada for the plan to work.

"I-I see." Canada turned from him, and leaned against the counter with his hands braced on it. "And it'll be like I never existed."

"Da."

There was a long, and in Ivan's mind, tense, silence between the two men. Finally, Canada turned around.

"Is there a way to reverse this...rejection?" The blind hope, and the clueless trust that he was demonstrating right now cause Ivan to smirk a bit, though he quickly twisted it into a smile.

"But of course, Matvey."

* * *

A power that Alfred couldn't explain away was the ones he, and every other Country, held over their leaders. For the most part, the Countries followed the orders and ideas of the leaders of their land. The reason for this was because they usually had the same intentions and dreams.

But once in a while, there would be a leader that didn't see the way the Country did. They would intentionally drive the people of the Country into the ground, taking their money and resources, and starving the personification of the lands in the process. And, in one instance, a leader once felt tricked by their Nation, and had resorted to ruining the country out of revenge.

If that were to happen, the powers over the leaders would become clear in the Country's mind, and he could overrule the leaders. But it was done in such a way that the people thought that the leaders were simply changing their minds.

This hadn't been done in a very long time. Not since the fall of the Union; and there it had failed.

But Ivan had held on to that power, knowing that someday, somehow, his wish to unite everyone would come true.

* * *

Matthew had fallen asleep on the plane. It was easier to deal with the air sickness that he had been struck with as the aircraft had flown over the Russian border when he was sleeping.

There was only so long one could sleep, he found out later as he woke up. Already, though he knew he shouldn't, Matthew missed the guest room that he had been given at Russia's. The Canadian pulled out his worn paperback to distract himself from his rumbling stomach.

When the plane landed, some hours later, Matthew fairly ran from it. His boss, Mr. Harper was there, holding a squirming Kumajirou.

The Canadian froze. _How did Harper know to come here today? I didn't even call him._ The bear freed himself and galloped into Matthew's legs, causing a laugh to escape the Nation despite his confusion.

Questions forgotten, he bent down and scooped his friend into his arms, burying his face into the soft fur.

"Who are you?"

"Canada. I'm home."

"About time."

The welcome, while not very warm by other's standards, made Matthew grin like an idiot. He had desperately missed his friend these last few weeks.

That happiness was diminished slightly when Harper walked up to him, a smile hitched into place.

"How was your vacation?"

"Good. Got some relaxing in, and some paper work done that had piled up. How were things here?"

"Oh, you know." It looked like Harper was going to add more, but his cell rang. As he answered, he turned for privacy and walked away, as if forgetting Matthew.

"Oh, well," he told his bear, who was clinging to his arms. "Let's go home, eh?"

"Finally."

Matthew rolled his eyes at his friend before pulling out his own cell and calling a cab with a sharp pain in his chest. Even if Harper was rejecting him, it still hurt to be ignored, though he hid it well.

When the cab pulled up and Matthew climbed in, a headache flared and he had to curl in on himself to stay conscious.

"Kid? Don't you puke, or you're paying double," the cabby warned. _Must be one of Al's,_ Matthew thought hazily. _Mine are far too polite to ever say something like that._

"I'm fine," he said. After giving the driver his address, he pulled Kumajirou closer to him.

The drive was over in what felt like a moment, although the Canadian knew it only seemed that way because he fell asleep. After paying, and tipping, the driver, Matthew walked up the porch steps to his door.

He was looking forward to a painkiller or two for his headache and his bed. He would figure out what to do with Harper in the morning. He piled his luggage in a corner to be unpacked and washed the next day, and collapsed on his bed. Maybe he would forget the pills.

* * *

_Ring...Ring...Ring._

Matthew groaned and rolled over, unwilling to wake but too polite to ignore it. He groggily answered it.

"Hello?"

"Matvey."

As if the sound of Russia's voice triggered it, Matthew's head started to _throb_. Kumajirou snuggled closer, and Matthew scratched his head gently.

"Ah, hi. How are you?"

"Good. And you?"

"I'm fine," Matthew said with a smile. He glanced at the clock on his wall. Seven thirty in the morning. "Must be about time for you to eat, though."

"Da."

There was an awkward silence for a moment before Matthew cleared his throat. "Was there anything you needed?"

"No, I was just checking up on you. Making sure you arrived safely." The Russian sounded bored, and a little angry.

"Oh," he answered, "I didn't know you were waiting for a call, otherwise I would have called as soon as I got off the plane."

"It is fine, Matvey."

"O-oh."

"Comrade Matvey, you must listen to me. I know you are tired, and you are probably not feeling well, but you must carry this out," Russia said with a sudden intensity that didn't match the bored tone of just a second ago.

"I'm listening." _How did he know I wasn't feeling so good?_

"You must confront Harper, tell him that what he is doing is wrong. The sooner the better."

Matthew sighed. It all seemed so pointless. So what if the government wasn't doing _exactly_ what he wanted? It's not like they listened to him at any other time. "And if they kick me out of my own lands? You know that a Country has to have someplace to call home, or they die."

"Would England or France offer you places to stay?" Russia asked.

"I wouldn't want to," Matthew said. "Not with Francis at any rate."

"I see. And you wouldn't want to go to Alfred, I assume?"

"You assume correctly."

"Then you have a problem." Matthew sighed once more before glancing out the window. The sun was painfully bright.

"Yeah. I'll have to think about it, see what I can do."

"Da. Let me know when you do." The line went dead and Matthew dropped the phone to the side table once more.

Where could he stay? He didn't want to cease to exist. Even if he was still recognized by the others, but abolished, he would live a half-life like Prussia, which was undesirable, to say the least.

But, should Canada fall from power, and Alfred takes over...Matthew furrowed his brows, his headache making it hard to think.

"I'd have to be in the service of another Country," he told his friend, who was laying on his back. Matthew laughed and rubbed Kumajirou's belly.

Who would take him? Matthew sighed, a frustrated breath that left with force, and ran his fingers through his hair. He knew that he was thinking worst case scenario, but he couldn't help himself.

He got up and went to his attached bathroom. A shower never hurt anything.

* * *

**A.N.: Thanks for the various alerts I've received in the past month. It's nice to know that my story is worth the time to read it.  
**

**Please, please, review! I have no way of making this better (because I know it can be) if I have no feedback. Even if that feedback is a flame; at least who ever wrote that took time out of their day to let me know how they feel about it.**

**I don't own Hetalia. **


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